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A Locanian having plucked all the feathers off from a nightingale
and seeing what a little body it had, read more
A Locanian having plucked all the feathers off from a nightingale
and seeing what a little body it had, "surely," quoth he, "thou
art all voice and nothing else." (Vox et praeterea nibil.)
A sweet voice, a little indistinct and muffled, which caresses
and does not thrill; an utterance which glides on read more
A sweet voice, a little indistinct and muffled, which caresses
and does not thrill; an utterance which glides on without
emphasis, and lays stress on what is deeply felt.
How sweetly sounds the voice of a good woman!
It is so seldom heard that, when it speaks,
read more
How sweetly sounds the voice of a good woman!
It is so seldom heard that, when it speaks,
It ravishes all senses.
Her silver voice
Is the rich music of a summer bird,
Heard in the still night, with read more
Her silver voice
Is the rich music of a summer bird,
Heard in the still night, with its passionate cadence.
The voice of the sea speaks to the soul. The touch of the sea is sensuous, enfolding the body in read more
The voice of the sea speaks to the soul. The touch of the sea is sensuous, enfolding the body in its soft, close embrace.
Thy voice
Is a celestial melody.
Thy voice
Is a celestial melody.
He ceased: but left so charming on their ear
His voice, that listening still they seemed to hear.
He ceased: but left so charming on their ear
His voice, that listening still they seemed to hear.
The voice is nothing but beaten air.
[Lat., Vox nihil aliud quam ictus aer.]
The voice is nothing but beaten air.
[Lat., Vox nihil aliud quam ictus aer.]
It is the still small voice that the soul heeds; not the deafening blasts of doom.
It is the still small voice that the soul heeds; not the deafening blasts of doom.
